The keepers catch one
after another, but the work goes on all the same. You cannot stop men
from poaching, and there is an end of the matter. You may shout yourself
hoarse in trying to bring a greyhound to heel after he sights a hare;
but the dog _cannot_ obey you, for he is an automaton. The human
predatory animal has his share of reason, but he also is automatic to
some degree, and he will hunt in spite of all perils and all punishments
when he sights his prey. One comic old rascal whom I know well has been
caught thirty times and imprisoned eight times. While he is in gaol he
always occupies himself in composing songs in praise of poaching, and on
the evening of his release he is invariably called on to furnish the
company in the tap-room with his new composition. He cannot read or
write, but he learns his songs by heart, and I have taken down a large
number of them from his own lips. The things are much like Jemmy
Catnach's stuff, so far as rhyme and rhythm are concerned, but they are
interesting on account of the sly exultation that runs through them.
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